


In the Window

by hhertzof



Category: The Boxcar Children - Gertrude Chandler Warner
Genre: Chanukah, Family, Gen, Judaism, Menorah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:51:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhertzof/pseuds/hhertzof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes miracles do happen, sometimes you do get a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celeria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeria/gifts).



_In the window_  
 _Where you can see the glow_  
 _From my menorah_  
 _On the newly fallen snow_  
 _I will light you one little candle_  
 _On this, the first night of Chanukah_ \- Trad. Chanukah Song

Ben threw the book against the wall of the boxcar. He wouldn't have done that with any other book, but this was special. 

Violet looked up from her knitting. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse. Did I really obsess over that pink cup for so long?"

"You broke it within a year after we moved in with Grandfather, and barely mentioned it after." Violet replied with a smile. "Does book me still have an unhealthy attachment to the color lavender?" Jokes about her name had nearly led her to reject all shades of purple, but grandfather would buy her clothes in that color and she didn't like to hurt his feelings. Now that she was picking out her own clothes, she avoided favoring one color over another. 

"It comes and goes." Ben absently walked over to pick up the book and put it with the others on the shelf.

"I don't know why you keep reading those things, even if Jessie did write them," Violet said. She glanced out the door of the boxcar. "It's starting to get dark, we should probably head up to the house for dinner." She capped her knitting needles, and tucked her knitting tidily on the shelf beside Benny's books.

"Do you think Jessie's here yet?" Ben asked as he shoved his shoes back on his feet and rolled down his sleeves. He passed her her jacket and put on his own.

"Probably not. She would have come down to find us if she were. And Henry probably won't get here till tomorrow. He had to work today." She wrapped her scarf around her neck and put her hat and coat on before turning off the portable heater.

Ben made a face. "I miss all of us being together. With Henry in grad school and Jessie at college...."

"And I'll be off to college myself next year." Violet smiled sadly and hopped down from the boxcar, careful not to muss her pale green dress. "Oh, it's snowing. Why did grandfather insist we dress for dinner? He isn't normally that picky about what we wear."

"He told me this morning, invited someone special. A surprise, he said, so I didn't pry."

"Maybe it will be Joe and Alice. We haven't seen them in ages. Oh, it's snowing." Violet waited for Ben to jump down, and then headed down the path towards the house.

"Maybe. We won't know till we get there. Race you?" Ben paused to wait for her answer.

"I can't run in these silly heels," Violet grumbled. "I wish I'd thought to change them before we came out here."

"I don't know why you wear those things," Ben said. "I wish Grandfather didn't expect us to dress up for holiday meals. Way too much fuss."

"But it's fun. Delicate china and crystal on the table and everything all shiny and bright. " Violet sighed. "This path feels a lot longer in high heels." The accumulating snow didn't help.

"You'd like the books, then. The boxcar is in view of the house." Ben made a face. "All sorts of silly changes. I don't know why Jessie made some of them."

"Maybe her editor made her. Or maybe she was trying to prevent people from finding out how much of the books was based in our real lives." Violet climbed slowly up the back steps, behind Ben.

"But wasn't that why this whole thing happened? She did that autobiography assignment for one of her classes and her teacher made her send it to a publisher. It was a huge sensation. They photographed the Boxcar and everything. Those kids may have our names but they're nothing like us," Ben said vehemently.

"I don't know," Violet teased. "I'd say your appetite is just like the Benny's in the books."

He made a face at her.

"You're also good at talking to everyone you meet."

"I like people. And mysteries. You like photography. And handicrafts." As comebacks went, it fell a bit flat and they both knew it.

"And I sometimes wear purple. And Jessie _is_ good at organizing or we'd never have made it to the boxcar. But I know what you mean. We're more than that." Violet twitched her dress into place. "Do I look okay?"

"Maybe brush your hair? You've got snow in it. I need to run up and get my jacket. And brush my hair."

"When did you start taking so much interest in your appearance?"

"I figure we owe it to Grandfather. He's been so great to us over the years, and he rarely asks us to dress up like penguins, even though he comes from that sort of background."

"Speak for yourself. _I_ look nothing like a penguin. Meet you back here in fifteen and we'll go in together."

"It's a deal," Ben said. He knew Violet still didn't like large crowds even if she knew everybody, and the whole family was coming tonight. Aunt Jane and Uncle Andy, Joe and Alice and Soo Lee. Probably the Moores and John Carter too. He loped up the back stairs two by two.

Violet paused to kick off her shoes and leave them carefully to one side of the steps. They were a little worse for wear after the walk in the woods, but they'd do for tonight.

* * *

Jessie lifted her pen from the paper, laid it down, and rubbed her wrist. She'd been writing since she'd got on the train in Pennsylvania, but now she tucked her manuscript into her writing satchel, capped her pen and put that away. She stood up and was swinging her suitcase down, just as the train pulled into the station. 

Writing one of the most popular series for 7-10 year olds while going to college wasn't the easiest of tasks, even if the Boxcar Children books seemed to just flow from her pen. It did mean that she had to cram the writing in between class assignments and lectures, and it wasn't anything like her best work, but that was all good. It meant that she didn't have time to fret over details and the characters rarely sounded like her relatives. It had been bad enough when the first book was published and reporters had come to the house and made such a big deal about everything. The sooner people forgot that the "Boxcar Children" were real, the better.

She wove her way around the crowds and checked which platform the Boston train would be leaving from and then stopped to buy a snack from one of the vendors. Jessie was debating whether to eat it now, or save it for when she was on the train when she heard a familiar voice hailing her.

"Jess!"

She swung around, accidentally hitting Henry with her satchel. "I thought you weren't coming up till tomorrow, Henry."

"My last class was canceled. I thought I'd beat the rush." They both laughed at this. The platform was crowded with people heading North for the holidays. "I knew you were taking this train," Henry added, "so I thought I'd surprise you."

"It was a very good surprise." Jessie smiled at him. "Do the others know you're coming today, or is it a surprise for them too?" Henry's answer was lost as the train pulled into the station, but Jessie repeated it once they were both settled in their seats.

"Nope. Surprises all around. How's the writing business going?"

Jessie made a face. "Sometimes it's fun and sometimes I wish I'd never agreed to this whole thing. It seemed so great when I was sixteen, but now I wonder if I'll ever have time to write anything else. I understand Arthur Conan Doyle's desire to kill off Sherlock Holmes better now."

"You're not planning to kill us off, are you?" Henry asked, semi-seriously. "I know you got a lot dumped on you when our parents died, but I didn't think you hates us all that much."

"No, I'm not going to kill you off." Jessie stuck her tongue out at her brother. "But three books a year for the last six years is more time than I planned to spend with this fake family of mine. The publisher offered to buy me out and continue the series with ghostwriters, but it would mean giving up my rights to the characters, and I'm _not_ going to do that."

Henry nodded. "You don't want to do that. It's not like we need the money, but they're _us_."

"For some value of us, reduced to mild caricatures and barely aging at all. If there's one thing I regret about this business, it's that I didn't stand my ground and insist they age normally. I think they're about to start their third summer at the same ages." Jessie brightened a little. "Though I suppose if they never age, they'll seem less like real people. I think what I really need is a break."

"I don't blame you. The last thing I want to do when I get home is even think about engineering." Henry had seen the regretful look Jessie had given her writing satchel when Henry had tucked it up with the other luggage, but he'd also seen the tired look in her eyes. She'd managed in the Boxcar and she'd manage here, but going away to college had given her a break from being the responsible one, and he meant to see that it stayed that way.

* * *

James Henry Alden sat at his desk, with a report open. He'd read the thing three times now, but he could remember nothing about it. His eyes drifted to the picture of Jim and Katya on their wedding day. He hadn't been there, but he'd found the photo among their things when he'd gone to clean out their house. Every time he looked at it he regretted being so hard-hearted about the whole business, which was why he kept it on his desk.

He still had trouble thinking of his son as Ben, though that was the only name his grandchildren knew their father by, so he made the effort to remember. They deserved that, at the very least. Near as he could tell, Jim had changed it when he converted to Judaism. Katya had also changed her name, though less dramatically, Americanizing it to Kate. But they'd kept his last name. He might have found them if he'd bothered to look. If he hadn't been too proud.

But James had been a product of his time and social class and the thought of his son marrying a poor Jewish immigrant with no family had been repugnant to him. James had called her a gold-digger and worse, and had even attempted to pay her to leave his son alone. She'd been furious. And Jim had stormed into this very office that day and accused him of caring for nothing but money and social position. And then he left, leaving his father with nothing else to care about.

Celia might have stopped him, if she'd lived to see their son grow up. He liked to believe that, though he could never be certain it was true. She'd grown up in the same social circles he had.

There was a knock. "Grandfather," Ben called, and James looked up to see his two youngest grandchildren standing in the door to the office, looking a little too formal and grown-up. "Mr. McGregor has gone to pick up Jess from the station and Mrs. McGregor says dinner will be served when they get back. I thought we were having other company. Do you think they'll make it in this snow?"

"Andy called me about half an hour ago. They're coming. They just might be a little late. Everyone else is close enough that they should get here before the roads get too bad. We can always put people up for the night, if it comes to that." He suddenly realized how dark it had gotten. "Did you light the menorah, Violet?"

"I was just about to. I know you like to watch." Violet smiled at him. 

The menorah had been Katya's and like the matching silver candlesticks had been brought over from Russia when she immigrated. Jessie had taken charge of them and then passed the job to Violet when she went off to college. James watched as his granddaughter lit the candles and said the prayer, and once again wished that he could get back the years he'd lost with his son and daughter-in-law. 

There was a Christmas tree in the corner and the house was decorated with greens and garlands, but James knew that was for him and their guests. Christmas didn't mean much to his grandchildren and he hadn't tried to change that. He'd already lost too much. The light of the candles flickered on the snow, and James couldn't help feeling like it was guiding his family home.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit telling that this is the first thing that came to mind when I read the "why did Grandfather dislike the children's mother?" prompt, but at the time of the early books it would have been a huge barrier, especially among people of James Alden's class and background, so I went with it.


End file.
